


The Dream

by Saki (Albione)



Series: The Terrible Dream [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Charmie - Fandom
Genre: Boys In Love, Historical, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mythology References, Timmy is not what he seems, sad childhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:54:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26686213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Albione/pseuds/Saki
Summary: Armand Hammer is a lonely child in a big house with an unloving mother, Greek mythology keeps him company till he meets a satyr.It will change the course of his life...
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Series: The Terrible Dream [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997197
Comments: 17
Kudos: 63





	The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I am still writing the French Honeybadger, but I am stuck with Timmy and Armie in the shower, yes, I know that it's a good place to have them, but they need to get out sooner or later... 
> 
> This story came to mind while I was re-reading Saki's short stories. If you have never read him, do, they are great, flaying Edwardian society. This is slightly based on Sredni Vashtar, but there are many more about hypocrisy. Saki's real name was Hector Hugh Munro. And I got my nick from him...  
> As usual, it was quickly written, all mistakes are mine, I tried to keep an old fashioned style of writing, I do not know these people and petty Timmy is my kink.

Armand Douglas Hammer was an unhappy child. He should have had a lot to be happy about, he was rich, lived in a beautiful country house and was healthy.  
But he was unhappy.

He lived in Ramsey Manor nestled the Berkshire Downs, there was a large garden and woods, a stream ran close by. There was so much to enjoy, but he couldn't.  
Armand Douglas Hammer lived there with his mother Drusilla who enjoyed only one thing, crushing everyone’s pleasures with her pious ways.

Armand could not play with the other children from the village (“beneath us”), run in the garden (“so unbecoming”), read books (“the Bible is the only useful book”).  
He could go to church and pray at home.  
He was waiting to be sent to school to get away, but he was still only seven years old.  
His father, Michael Hammer, was permanently away in London; he had married Dusilla for her dowry, had produced an heir and felt free to run away.

There was only one thing that gave Armand happiness, the book about Greek myths he had found forgotten in the attic.  
He had hid it in the pottering shed and every time his mother left the house, he would elude the governess and grab the book, climb a tree and read.  
He loved being transported in a world where gods and humans interacted, where mythical creatures walked around playing cruel tricks on men. If he imagined his mother as a victim, we shouldn't blame him.

On the eve of Midsummer Drusilla left the manor to visit the archbishop that was visiting the nearby town. As her carriage drove off Armand ran into the garden and collected his treasured book.

Since Mademoiselle Chambers had one of her migraines and had retired and his mother was away till after dinner, Armand sat under the tree near the bubbling stream.  
It was a warm day, quiet and dreamlike. Birds sang around him, a slight breeze rustled leaves and as Armand was reading about Ariadne being saved by Dionysus he heard music.

It was a sweet melody, like multiple flutes and it came from behind a grove of ash trees.  
He carefully got up and slowly crept to the edge of the grove, hardly daring to breathe, afraid and excited.  
He stopped and, hiding behind the largest ash, he looked towards the centre. In the low golden light of the evening there was a young boy playing a sort of flute, or two flutes at once. He was naked except for a black fur pelt around his waist, his pale skin glistening.

Armand just stared, the boy was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, black curls so different from his straight blond hair, a straight nose and two small horns nestled among his curls at the top of his head.  
Armand must have made a noise, or moved, because the creature turned towards him and smiled. 

They stood looking at each other in silence, blue eyes staring into forest green eyes; then, without a warning the creature made a small wave and ran off into the thicket.

Armand returned home, realising it had become dark, thank goodness nobody had noticed his absence.  
As he washed his teeth it dawned on him that he had met a satyr, in the middle of the English countryside there was a satyr and he had been lucky enough to see it.

His dreams that night were full of music and green eyes.  
The next day he was distracted and rushed through morning prayers and boring lessons. After lunch in the nursery he ran into the grounds, back to the thicket, but it was empty. He felt a surge of disappointment wash over him.

The afternoon dragged till it was approaching the golden hour, the same time as yesterday. Armand carefully escaped and tried to find the satyr again.  
He was right, in the middle of the clearing the creature, the satyr or the boy was dancing while playing his pipes. As Armand approached, he stopped and smiled.

“Hello, my name is Armand, how do you do Mr Satyr?” His voice trembled, but he knew that good manners were essential.  
The satyr bowed towards him and then continued dancing. Armand sat down and watched till it grew dark and the stars lit the sky.

The day after he stole a peach after lunch, a thrill of excitement ran over him at his daring.  
After washing his face (and behind his ears) and getting into bed obediently saying he wasn't feeling well, he wanted till the light changed to gold. He sneaked out of the house and again was transported to the magical ash thicket. The satyr nodded at him, his black curls bouncing, and Armand held out the peach. The both stood in silence till Armand placed the peach on the ground and backed away. The satyr moved closer and picked it up. 

Armand watched the long fingers hold the peach, the pink full lips opening and the juice of the fruit run down the satyr’s chin.  
He felt something he couldn't understand, he knew he was too young to grasp it, but it was important.

As the summer moved on Armand lived a parallel life; the day he would pray, study and be dutiful, but would always manage to pocket some fruit. In the evening he would join the satyr in the thicket.  
He handed the fruit that would be collected from his hand, skin brushing skin, fingers fleetingly meeting, and sit listening to the pan pipes music.  
Once, when he managed to find grapes, he was allowed to feed the creature, grape by grape, his fingers tingling each time he felt the lips brushing them.

But all things need to end, and for Armand it was crushing.  
The days became shorter and one evening a terrible thunderstorm erupted over the house, Armand still managed to get to the thicket and watched the satyr dance under the rain, his head back and mouth open to catch the raindrops. His pale skin glistened and Armand just stood under a tree watching.  
He didn’t notice the water, he didn’t feel cold, he just watched. Till he sneezed.  
The satyr stopped, his curls plastered onto his brow, and smiled sweetly and then just disappeared.

When Armand got back to his room there was his nanny and mother waiting for him. The thunderstorm had woken the household, hearing windows rattling Drusilla had sent the staff to close them all; when Armand’s bed was empty, the household went looking for him.

He knew he would be punished. Being struck with a belt was painful, but being locked in his room and not allowed out was unbearable.  
“I see that the seed of the devil has entered your soul Armand, you need to be brought back onto the righteous path!” His mother’s face was deformed by rage, each time the leather struck his back she shivered in the pleasure of giving pain.

You could not see the thicket from his room, Armand just stared into the horizon of fields and trees thinking of green eyes and a sly smile. There was a pain in his chest.

His book on Greek mythology had been found and thrown into the fireplace; he watched the pages curl from the heat and crumble into black cinders. He felt the tears trying to escape, but he stood in the parlour straight as a rod and kept them back. In his mind a plea rose as the black smoke. 

“Please Gods of Olympus, let this be vindicated. Please let her pay for this… Please mighty Zeus, strike her… Athena punish her… Dionysus destroy her!”  
His face reddened by the heat of the flames and his anger, his mind screamed the last part.  
In the distance he thought he heard the soft music of a pan pipe and calm descended.

He was sent to a dank prep school, subjected to humiliations and punishments. He took them stoically and when he thought he could not bear much more, he heard pan pipes.

Years passed, Armand Hammer grew into a fine young man, extremely tall, athletic (captain of the rugby school team), his dark blonde hair and piercing blue eyes made women and men swoon. Nicknamed Hercules at school, he arrived at Oxford to Regent’s Park college feeling hopeful.  
He was going to study Classics and enjoy the relative freedom of university, away from his mother and rules.

He had returned only once to the Ash grove, the following summer. He brought a red rose and a peach, but the satyr did not appear. The air was still, but there was no feeling of being alive with magic. He stayed a couple of hours and then left, knowing that that chapter of his life had ended.

The first night in college Armand walked into the common room, it was cozy with armchairs scattered around a large fireplace and bookcases full of interesting volumes to lose oneself into.  
Armand chose a corner, away from others and opened Ovid’s Metamorphoses. He knew all by heart, his eyes skimming the letters while repeating the story in his mind. The flow of the Latin verses calming him.

But the flow was interrupted by a strange feeling; of being observed so closely that the gaze entered his soul. He looked up and sitting at the other end of the room was a young man so breathtakingly beautiful he felt a shiver pierce him.

Green eyes were studying him and plump pink lips were turned up into a knowing smile. A mass of curly black hair framed perfect features.  
He reminded Armand of the satyr.

The young man stood up and walked towards Armand and introduced himself.  
“Hello, I am Timothée Chalamet. I see that you are reading one of my favourite books…”  
Armand stood up and shook the hand offered him. The young man’s skin was soft and cool.  
“Armand Hammer, pleased to meet you. Yes, Ovid is my comfort book…” He smiled shily, he just wasn't used to being friendly.

The two of them talked all evening about books, and in the following weeks they talked more.  
Timothée (please call me Tim, the way the English butcher my name is terrible, not you of course…) and Armand (then call me Armie, I have always felt that Armand is pretentious) became inseparable.

Tim watched Armie play rugby, admiring the tall muscular body covered in mud, his blond hairs peeking from the clothing; Armie watched Tim play the piano or the violin, transfixed by the long delicate fingers that were so strong in plucking beautiful notes.  
They talked about books and art, they took long walks entranced by being shown what the other noticed. Tim recognised the trees and wildlife, being able to see what was hidden while Armie talked about the history of the places they saw.

This was the first friend Armand had ever had; all the years the lonely child and solitary boy had wished for companionship and on his first day in college he had found a friend, the friend.  
Soon snow covered the landscape and Armand knew he had to return to Ramsey Manor for the Christmas holidays. While all the other students around him were happily chatting about going back home, he was dreading it. 

“What troubles you Armie?” Tim asked, a slight frown maring the perfect features.  
He shrugged “Just the thought of going home…” He felt silly saying it aloud.  
Tim smiled and light filled Armie’s soul.  
“I am staying here, too far to travel just for the holidays… keep me company?”  
If only Armie thought, but the last letter from his mother was an order, he had to join her for Christmas.

But, he could bring a guest?  
“Tim, would you like to spend the holidays at our home? Better than being alone in an empty college…” Armie looked so hopeful that Tim could only smile and nod.

As Armie ran to his room to write to his mother, warning her about his guest, he could not see how Tim’s smile muted into a very satisfied smirk.

For the first time in his life Armand felt anticipation as he approached the snow covered manor; as he scraped his boots at the entrance he almost felt at home, just because next to him Tim was doing the same, shaking snowflakes off his curls.

Drusilla waited for them in the parlour, sitting stiffly next to the fireplace. She studied Tim carefully, but he switched on his charm to full power, and, when he told her the Chalamets had been Hugenots since the XVI century, she started to thaw. 

“He seems a very polite young man Armand, I wonder why he would waste his time with a failure like you!” she commented later when Tim had gone to his room to unpack.  
Armie wondered the same thing daily.

Dinner was almost relaxing, Tim holding the conversation; Drusilla listened to him and nodded in agreement and smiled. Armie could only look at the scene in amazement, he had never seen his mother so pleasant.

The next morning Tim knocked at Armie’s bedroom door. “Wake up sleepy head, let’s go for a walk!”  
Armie dressed quickly, the day was cold but sunny, snow glistening and creating a wonderland.

The snow crunched under their feet, all was still; Armie felt they were the only people in the world.  
Their breath turned to steam in the air and mingled as it rose to the sky.  
Without realising it, Armie found himself walking towards the ash grove. He stopped, his heart beating.

“I used to come here every evening as a child…” He needed to tell this story, his childhood dream, and he knew Tim was the only person who would not think he was mad.

“There is a clearing in the middle, and I used to dream of a satyr playing the pipes and dancing freely. I suppose I read too much Greek mythology at a young age…” He laughed nervously, not daring to look at Tim’s reaction.

“It looks like a perfect place for satyrs, there is a very strong aurea here.” Tim took Armie’s hand and walked into the grove. Armie followed, grateful for the warmth of Tim's hand in his.  
“But there are no satyrs in the English countryside! Celtic gods yes, but Greek ones?” He tried to joke, but it fell flat.

The clearing was silent, the early morning light creating strange shadows from the snow covered bare branches.  
Tim stood in the middle, glowing. He looked up to the sky and softly muttered “Why stay in one place when there are so many things to see? So many lives to live? Eternity can be boring you know…”  
He turned and looked at Armie and he was so beautiful he hurt Armie’s eyes. He closed them, unable to bear the glow.

He felt he was the small child again, he could hear pan pipes being played somewhere.  
Then suddenly Tim was standing close to him and he opened his eyes and looked into the green eyes looking up to him.  
Without thinking Armie embraced him and they kissed. Soft lips opening and letting his tongue explore, hands running up and down over thick coats, trying to discover the bodies underneath. 

Time stopped and the pan pipes music was louder, there were also people laughing and cheering. As he stepped back Arime was surprised they were alone.  
Tim sighed and rested his head on Armie’s chest.  
“What have we done! Tim, I am so sorry…”  
Panic gripped Armie, it was a sin, the worst sin he could commit.  
“We did what was destined, Armie, from the first time we met.” Tim caressed Armie’s face, smiling up at him.  
“There is no sin when there is love!” 

He grabbed Armie’s hand again and led him away from the grove, towards the house.  
Armie was surprised on how sure Tim was in entering the house from the back entrance and up to his room; it seemed he had lived in the house for years and not the first time he had visited.

In the guest room Tim took off his coat; Armie did the same, but while he carefully folded it and placed it on the back of a chair, Tim just let it fall to the floor.  
He continued undressing, first his jumper, his shirt, his trousers… Armie just stood and watched till Tim was naked in front of him.

Tim’s pale body, long and lithe, supple and strong, was there to be admired. And Armie did.  
He did till Tim slowly started to take off Armie’s clothes, till they both stood naked as an Adam and Adam in the Garden of Eden.

Tim sat on the bed and patted the space beside him, hesitantly, Armie sat down. They sat side by side, their knees touching.  
“I have waited a million years for this moment!” Tim whispered into Armie’s ear and then pushed him down onto the bed, straddling him.

Armie felt Tim’s manhood against his stomach, his own was rigid and nestled between Tim’s thighs.  
Without thinking he started to stroke Tim’s erection, slowly at first, then faster, the excitement of Tim’s moans and the feeling of mortal sin driving him into a frenzy.  
Tim had positioned Armie’s manhood between the cheeks of his buttocks, and slid up and down along it.  
The explosion of pleasure was immense, they both released upon the other.

Tim lay on top of him and idly rubbed his finger into the semen on Armie’s chest.  
“This is my seed Armand Hammer, take it!” He rubbed his finger along Armie’s lips; without thinking, Armie sucked the finger, tasting Tim.  
They kissed, and as Armie grabbed the dark curls he felt something prick his finger. A small pointed object on Tim’s head, among the curls. He ignored it, and opened his mouth wider to accommodate Tim’s tongue.

Lunch was a tense affair; Drusilla hated people being late and locked doors. Armand had been guilty of both while dragging poor Mr Chalamet into this.  
Armie just ate looking at his plate, shoulders hunched; his mother’s gaze was too terrible to contemplate and he felt guilt rising.  
He had sinned, the most terrible of sins. Hell was awaiting him, there was no salvation.  
Tim blissfully ignored the tension, he was his charming self, so much, that even Drusilla slowly thawed.

Using the excuse of a headache, Armie retreated to his room and collapsed onto his bed. All the wonder and joy of the morning had turned to ash. Bitter taste in his mouth, no longer the scent of Tim, but the acrid smell of regret.

The knock on his door broke the downward spiral of thought, but he could not look at Tim in the eyes as he entered.  
“Armie, what’s wrong? You look so pale…” The worry in the voice almost broke Armie and with a sob he threw himself back onto the bed.  
“I am so sorry Tim, I am so sorry for what happened this morning… It’s all my fault, I am sorry, it won't happen again…” 

Tim frowned and his eyes narrowed. “What are you sorry for Armand? Love? Happiness?”  
Armie shook his head, tears running down his cheeks. “I love you Tim, but we cannot love like this… Please, I am a lost soul, but I need to protect you, I cannot bear the thought of you being ruined…”  
Tim bent down onto the bed and kissed Armie’s forehead, a light kiss, and whispered “There is no sin with love, but there is darkness in this house, it needs to be cleansed.”  
While stroking Armie’s hair he looked around the dark heavy furniture in the room, too big for the space, pressing down to crush whoever lived there.

“Yes, it needs to be cleansed, and you need to be freed. Sleep Armie, you will feel better tomorrow.”  
Armie closed his eyes with an odd feeling of comfort. He did not see the shadow cross Tim’s face, highlighting the sharp cheekbones and almost deforming his features into something wild.

Armie slept the rest of the day; chicken broth was brought to his room at dinner. Tim stopped by and reassured him that Drusilla was in a good mood, he had been entertaining her by playing the piano.

The household retired, darkness fell, the moon was full and the snow shone as never before.  
There was stillness and quiet, not even the owl hooted, foxes stayed in their dens. Nothing moved, as waiting for something.

Armie dreamt, he was in the clearing and the satyr was there, but this time he was Tim, naked and beautiful. He smiled at him and ran to embrace him.  
“I waited so long for you!”  
The little horns at the top of his head pricked Armie’s chin and the pain woke him up.  
He heard noises outside, muffled by the snow, but it seemed there was a procession outside the house, people moving.  
Then there was a scream, so high pitched that it almost sounded unhuman.  
As it died down, there was silence for the few seconds before the household woke up.  
Armie grabbed a robe and ran out of his room. As he ran down the stairs he saw Tim standing at the parlour doorway looking into the room.

“Tim! What happened? Are you all right?”  
Armie reached him and touched his shoulder, noticing he was cold, almost freezing. He looked into the room, the large windows were open, moonlight filling the room.  
Tim pointed towards a black shape in the snow outside. 

Armie walked out of the house towards the shape.  
His mother was laying on the ground looking up to the sky with an expression of pure terror; it was like some grotesque Greek theatre mask, her features almost unrecognisable, her mouth open in a silent scream.

He heard the servants behind him rushing and he turned. Tim was still standing at the doorway, his features hidden by shadows, but Armie could feel a sense of satisfaction emanating from him.

As the butler and the coachman carried Drusilla’s body into the house and the housekeeper called the doctor and the police constable, Armie looked down at the snow. It was full of prints, not human, but of goats, a lot of goat prints and an alarming set of feline prints. A very large feline.

“That’s a panther print.” Tim said casually, having joined Armie outside.  
“There are no panthers in Berkshire!” Armie replied automatically, tring to process all his feelings.  
Tim shrugged, that little French shrug that usually Armie loved to see.  
“If you prefer to think so… I am going back to bed, it’s cold.”  
As Armie watched Tim going back into the house he had the feeling he was still in a dream.

But by the next day Armie realised it was no dream. The doctor decreed that Drusilla Hammer had died of cold and fright; she must have been sleepwalking and went outside, some wild animal (a fox or a barn owl) probably startled her awake and she had a heart attack.

Everyone ignored the strange prints in the snow that were soon covered by new falling snow.

The funeral was a solemn affair; Sir Michael Hammer unfortunately could not attend, but all the village was there, probably to make sure Drusilla was really dead and buried.

Tim stayed close to Armie the whole time, ready to console him.  
If the consolation was between the sheets, it was nobody’s affair than theirs.

Because the minute his mother died a big weight had been lifted from Armie’s shoulders, he was ready to let light in, to love and accept Tim’s love.  
He walked tall and he was radiant, his hair blonder, his eyes bluer. An Apollo.  
If he was still dreaming, he could stake his life on the dream and never wake up.

Years have passed since all this happened and today Armand Hammer and Timothée Chalamet live in Ramsey Manor; poor Michael Hammer died when he was gored by a bull in the South of France a few years ago.

Everyone knows that Armie and Tim are confirmed bachelors, that they share the house and one bed, but they are so beautiful and talented nobody cares.  
Armie is an internationally renowned expert of Classics and Greek mythology while Tim is a composer and musician.

The only strange thing is how grapes grow in the gardens of the manor, luscious and sweet grapes in the middle of Berkshire. And the peach tree that seems to always bear fruit the year round.  
But satyrs love grapes and one satyr in particular adores peaches.


End file.
